


The Death of Dragons

by AlphaMan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Rebellion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-09-26 06:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9872474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaMan/pseuds/AlphaMan
Summary: What if Jon Snow and Sansa Stark had been alive during the First Blackfyre Rebellion?ORMy take on what really went down between Daeron the Good and Daemon Blackfyre.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the characters belong to George R.R. Martin. This story will diverge from canon.

They pronounced him dead, sometime after the break of dawn. They sounded the bells throughout the city, waking the nobles and smallfolk alike. None were mourning for the dead king, and if they were, they hid it well beneath faces of pure mirth and merriment. The king’s family had sent for the Silent Sisters. The High Septon had been ordered to make prompt arrangements for the king’s funeral. He was to be cremated, like his ancestors before him. Out in the streets, the commoners and the knights had begun drinking together, toasting their recently deceased monarch. The women were gossiping amongst themselves in the market, gleefully sharing tales about the king’s death. Their children ran amongst the crowds, singing songs to celebrate the passing of a man who was almost unanimously reviled by his people.

The mood in the Red Keep was only slightly dourer. The King’s family had locked themselves away from prying eyes, preferring to discuss the funeral arrangements behind closed doors. Only trusted advisers and family friends had been allowed to join them. None of the king’s bastards were present, save one. Most of the nobles were lounging in the gardens, anxiously sharing rumors of what the king’s family members were planning to do next in the wake of his death. Talk of succession was rife, with each man casting his lot for either the black dragon or the red one. Most of them were eagerly waiting in line to meet the royal family and offer them their condolences. Some of them had been honest people, while most, like as not, were just there to curry favor. The gold cloaks had been manning the gates to the Red Keep, with strict orders to not let anyone through. The knights of the Kingsguard had taken over the running of the castle, with even stricter orders to observe the guests.

King Aegon Targaryen the Fourth, or better known as Aegon the Unworthy, was dead, and soon more than half the realm would be celebrating his (long-overdue) passing. Details of his death and suffering were still being withheld by the maesters, but most, if not all, knew that Aegon’s gluttony had been his final undoing. The king’s latest mistress had been inconsolable; she was a baseborn churl from the Free Cities, and was well aware that her deportation would be imminent. Nearing the end of his reign, King Aegon had become too fat to even crawl into her bed. Most of the high lords were relieved that he had not gotten a babe on her, knowing full well that the realm would soon be crawling with Aegon’s bastards, and mummers who claimed to be Aegon’s bastards. Before this woman, there had been a bevy of other women. There had been two Brackens, a Blackwood, a priestess from Lys, a Vaith, a Lothston, a Stokeworth, a Stark, and even the King’s own cousin sister.

The maesters swarmed over his corpse like a flock of worried hens. He was to be delivered to the Silent Sisters soon, but the body of King Aegon reeked of pestilence and corruption. It would be almost impossible to cart his body through Maegor’s Holdfast and outside the Red Keep without drawing unwanted attention. One of the maesters suggested that they use the secret tunnels within the walls to remove the former king’s body. It was said that his limbs were rotting and covered in white flesh worms. His face had turned a sickly shade of green, and his already considerable stomach had taken on a bloated look. Aegon the Unworthy had been wallowing in his own shit, urine, and vomit before he passed. In his final hours, even talking caused him a great deal of discomfort. The maesters had been giving him the milk of the poppy to dull the pain. A few hours later, the Crown Prince (and soon to be crowned King) had arrived with a small retinue of knights and noble companions to pay their final respects to the deceased Targaryen sovereign. The Princess Daenarys mourned alone in her room.

Almost everyone, save the maesters and Prince Daeron, had squirmed at the sight of the king’s body. Prince Daeron gave his father a lingering look, before ordering the maesters and the royal servants to wrap the King’s body up in cloth before delivering him to the septons and Silent Sisters. Two of the Kingsguard knights accompanied the small escorting party through the secret tunnels in Maegor’s Holdfast. In the throne room, tapestries of King Aegon in his youth had been taken down, and new decorations were being put up in their place. Prince Daeron’s coronation was to be held after his father’s cremation, and like as not, most of the attendants would have forgotten about the old, dead king by then. One of the king’s bastards, Brynden Rivers, was standing in front of the Iron Throne. He looked back and nodded at the Crown Prince, who was also his close friend. The pair stood in silence as they observed the workers around them, grieving for their father in their own separate ways. Brynden Rivers had always been of a grim disposition, even in his youth. He had milk white skin, with hair to match his complexion. His eyes were red, and he had a winestain birthmark on his right cheek. He was not half so popular as his father, or even his older half-brother Daemon, but men feared and respected him all the same.

“Did he suffer long?” Brynden asked the Crown Prince.

“All night. But I’m sure you already knew that, brother.” Daeron replied. It was common knowledge that his half-brother was a spymaster, and frequently dabbled in the dark arts. None of this bothered the Crown Prince, for he knew Brynden Rivers to be a good man despite the sinister rumors surrounding him.

“Good”, Brynden said. “I can think of no other man who deserved a more painful and humiliating demise.”

“I’m sure many would agree with you on that. Nonetheless, he was still my father, and I should warn you to think twice before speaking ill of the dead.”

Brynden snorted. “You should warn me, but the other high lords will have even worse things to say of your predecessor. More than half the city is in their cups, celebrating King Aegon’s death. When word spreads throughout the realm, and when you invite these other lords to attend your coronation, you will know your true friends from the false, this I guarantee you.”

The Crown Prince scratched at the stubble growing on his chin. “All this I know already, Brynden. Tell me, what of the other bastards?” He asked his half-brother.

“You wish to know of their whereabouts? Very well. Aegor is most likely at Stone Hedge with his mother and grandmother. My sisters are at Raventree, and young Jon Snow has apparently attached himself to Lord Baratheon’s uncle. My spies claim that Baratheon’s uncle means to take the boy on as a page.”

The Crown Prince gave his half-brother a curt nod. It was said that King Aegon had sired a thousand bastards, but only a small fraction of them were of noble birth. The ones in King’s Landing were most probably children of whores and kitchen wenches, and Daeron wondered if any of them even knew that they were the progeny of the recently departed king. He thought of Jon Snow, the youngest of his father’s Great Bastards, who had been sired on Lord Stark’s own sister. Jon was a solemn boy of eight, who wore shades of grey and black, and mostly kept to himself. Jon was uneasy around other people, but he was far from uneasy around a blade. Those who had seen him spar in the courtyard with the squires had taken note of his raw talent. One day, he would turn out to be an excellent swordsman, of that Daeron had no doubt. Fostering the boy with Lord Baratheon’s uncle might just prove to be a good decision, the Crown Prince mused. “What of Shiera?”

“She’s in Lys, attending her aunt’s funeral. She will not be attending her father’s.”

Daeron had to smile at Brynden’s blunt and gruff response. It was well known that the two of them were lovers, and that Brynden was fiercely protective of Shiera. She had been fathered on a woman out of Lys, and was rumored to be a sorceress as well. Most men were enamored with her, with some even going so far as to say that she was the most beautiful  woman in all of Westeros. Aegor Rivers certainly thought so too, and was heard to claim that one day Shiera would be his, even if he had to take her forcefully. Aegor and Brynden certainly hated each other due to the history of enmity between their two houses, but the love they both shared for the same woman, who was their half-sister at that, had only seemed to have deepened the rift. Daeron loved Shiera in his own way, but he did not approve of her hedonistic and careless attitude towards her suitors. “She might not attend the funeral, aye, but something tells me that she might just attend my coronation”, he mentioned with a wry smile. “Any word on Daemon?”

His half-brother nodded. “He’s still in Tyrosh, but don’t be surprised if he already knows of your father’s passing. He has many admirers and leal servants here amongst the high lords. I would urge you to prohibit him from attending the ceremony.”

“If only it were that simple, Brynden. Daemon is our brother, and he deserves the chance to mourn our father as well. Besides, with his presence at the funeral, my false friends would be even more prompted to reveal themselves now, wouldn't they?”

Brynden grunted. “Even so my prince, that man is not to be trusted. He’s the most dangerous man in the Seven Kingdoms, and with all of those leeches whispering in his ear, he might even become aware of that fact.

Daeron did not say anything. He laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder and bade him goodbye. The Crown Prince retired to his chambers and ate his lunch in silence. His wife and children were away in Dorne to visit his goodbrother and he knew that he had to notify them soon of the king’s death. The late King Aegon had been a terrible father to all of his children, and had proven to be just as inept at ruling the Seven Kingdoms. The Crown Prince had spent a good portion of his life at odds with his father, preferring the company of his mother, his uncle Aemon the Dragonknight, and his half brother Brynden. He was never as close to the old man as Daemon, and this had lead the late king to treat his bastard-born brother as if he were his own heir, instead of Daeron, who was the Crown Prince. Daeron had not envied the relationship between his father and Daemon, but neither did he appreciate Daemon’s attempts at ingratiating himself with the royal family and in particular, his younger sister Daenarys.

Sometime in the evening, after he had sent word to his family in Dorne, he had received a message from Brynden. Brynden’s message was short and to the point, but that did not make its contents any less foreboding.

_Your bastard brother Daemon is no longer a bastard._

Many years ago, his father had almost started a war with the Dornishmen. He had sent a fleet of ships to destroy them, and had even commissioned the building of seven wooden dragons loaded down with wildfire, and had ordered them to be marched up the Boneway. Both attempts had been met with absolute failure. Then there were the half-veiled threats towards the Free Cities, leading Brynden to claim that their father hungered for war as a means to display his power. Daeron wondered briefly if his father had succeeded in doing so at last.


	2. At the Wake of Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story continues with King Aegon's wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ages of the Great Bastards (excluding Jon) and that of King Aegon's children with Queen Naerys, have been increased for plot purposes.

 A week before his death, the king had seen fit to legitimize each and every one of his bastards. Out of sheer spite, he had even placed Daemon Blackfyre ahead of his heir, Prince Daeron, in the line of succession to the Iron Throne. Even in the arms of the Stranger, Aegon the Unworthy still dictated the moves of his pawns, the Princess Daenarys had thought.

The held the king’s wake in the Great Sept of Baelor, which was already crowded with high lords and lowly hedge knights alike. The streets on Visenya’s Hill had been cleared by the Gold Cloaks, and those who were not in attendance at the wake were presumably at home, sleeping off their hangovers. The septas stood silently outside the Mother’s Doors, whilst the septons busied themselves about the Father’s altar, lighting candles and praying for their fallen monarch to be judged justly. At each altar, stood a Kingsguard knight, all of them resplendent in white. Daenarys spotted the Crown Prince standing over their father’s bier. Their late father had been covered up in a black burial shroud, with the insignia of House Targaryen, the three-headed dragon, adorned across the front in red. Black and red were the colors of House Targaryen, and had been worn by every king on the Iron Throne.

The first ones to arrive had been the Crown Prince’s own family. His wife, the Princess Myriah of Dorne, stood silently with her handmaidens, whilst the children had been given leave to roam and to socialize with the other mourners. Her brother’s eldest son and heir, was Baelor, and he was by far her favorite nephew. Baelor was a formidable warrior, even at the age of fourteen. He had already won three small tourneys, and was on his way to becoming one of the best swordsmen ever in Westeros. In the mornings, Prince Baelor often visited the maesters to continue his studies of the languages and the histories. In the evenings, the prince and the septons would convene to learn of the mysteries of the Faith, and both parties had naught but praise for the young man. He was considered to be brilliant and affable by the maesters, as well as righteous and just by the priests of the Faith of Seven. Daenarys spotted him talking to the other high lords, feeling at ease even in such exalted company. The other children of the Crown Prince were still young, but Daenarys knew that her brother prayed for them every day to turn out right.

The Crown Prince was more of a father to her than a brother, mostly due to the difference in age between them. Daeron was fiercely protective of Daenarys, and loathed their half-brother Daemon for fawning over her.

Many years ago, when Daemon had won his first tourney, their father had gifted him with the ancestral sword of House Targaryen. The sword, named Blackfyre, had once belonged to Aegon the Conqueror himself, and had been passed down in unbroken succession from one dragon king to another. Their father had broken the tradition, and the repercussions of doing so had been controversial. Many of the high lords at court had whispered that Aegon had finally recognized Daemon as his own son, and would soon legitimize him and place him ahead of Daeron in the order of succession. With a start, Daenarys had realized that those high lords had had the right of it all along. Upon receiving the sword, many of the high lords and knights who were disillusioned with Daeron and his pro-Dornish beliefs, had flocked to Daemon’s own unique banner. He had inverted the colors of House Targaryen, choosing a black dragon on a field of red, and had started referring to himself as Daemon Blackfyre. Soon after, he had married the daughter of the Archon of Tyrosh, due to the king’s insistence, but he had never stopped wooing Daenarys, much to the chagrin of the royal family.

Most of the king’s bastards, or at least the known ones, had shown up for the king’s wake. Only the Black Dragon and his close companion, Aegor Rivers, had been inconspicuously absent.

She spotted Brynden Rivers, her brother’s trusted confidante, standing by the Stranger’s Doors. He was trying to root out his half-brother’s potential allies from his foes. He had dispersed his guards and spies, with strict orders to take notes of what was being said by each and every mourner present. Brynden was a quiet youth, preferring the company of his half-sister Shiera compared to the others, but the princess was fond of him in her own way. He and Jon Snow, by far her favorite half-sibling, were very much alike in their demeanor, and that alone had endeared Brynden to her. The other men at court had taken to calling him Bloodraven, due to the winestain birthmark on his cheek. It was said that he practiced the dark arts, and was a spymaster to boot. He knew your every movement, as well as your friends, your enemies, and your deepest, darkest secrets. In short, he knew you better than you knew _yourself_ , and because of this very reason, the singers were fond of saying that Brynden ‘Bloodraven’ Rivers had a thousand eyes and one.

If her brother had heard that, he would have laughed. But not Bloodraven, who could be dour even at his own wedding, she mused.

Jon Snow, youngest of the king’s Great Bastards, was deep in conversation with his foster father and Lord Donnel Arryn. Jon’s uncle, Lord Barthogan Stark, had written to say that he would be coming to the capital for her brother’s coronation. Lord Barthogan had been very wroth when his dear sister, the Lady Lyanna, had been ‘stolen’ by the late king. He was even more wroth when the king had gotten a babe on her. The Lady Lyanna had passed away during Jon Snow’s birth, but the boy had stayed in King’s Landing at Aegon’s behest. He had been trained in the way of the sword with Ser Quentyn Ball, master-at-arms of the Red Keep, and had been raised alongside Daenarys and the Crown Prince’s children, as if he were the trueborn son of Aegon and not just his bastard. Lord Barthogan had oft visited Jon in his earlier, formative years, desperately begging the king for the rights to the boy’s custody. Barthogan was an good man, and his relations with his sole nephew were nothing if not amicable.  The Stark lord had expressed his intentions in his letter to renew his oaths of fealty to the Crown Prince, but even Daenarys knew that soon enough, Lord Barthogan would be pressing his claim towards Jon’s custody as well.

But Jon Snow had already been promised to another. A few days ago, Ser Ormund Baratheon, uncle to Lord Orys who was the ruler of Storm’s End, had decided to take the Stark bastard on as a page. Ser Ormund, in his younger days, had fought alongside Daeron the first, in the latter’s Conquest of Dorne. Ser Ormund was a formidable warrior, and commanded the respect of many a knight and young lad in the Stormlands. He had even visited Essos a few times, and if the rumors were true, had even served with a few of the sellsword companies there. Now in his mid-fifties, Ser Ormund’s hair had largely gone to gray, but his bright blue eyes and blinding smile still marked him for an attractive man. He was lean and tall, as most of the Baratheons were, and had his own following of young men who idolized and respected him. Chief amongst these men were his grandnephew, Ser Gowen Baratheon, who had been promised to a Lannister of the Rock. If Brynden’s spies were correct, and in Daenarys’ experience they were seldom wrong, then the old knight was even intending on founding a sellsword company in Westeros, to rival those across the Narrow Sea.

Ser Ormund was unpredictable even on a good day, yet the Princess Daenarys knew that Jon could still learn a great deal from the man. She made her way towards them, her personal guards falling into step behind her. Jon smiled when he saw her, and she ruffled his hair. The old knight gave her a curt nod, and laid a protective hand on Jon’s shoulder. He was flanked by two of his own guards, young men in steel plates. “Your uncle has written from Winterfell. He is riding here for Daeron’s coronation”, she informed Jon.

“Aye, Ser Gowen told me”, the boy said excitedly. “Will he be bringing his children with him too?”

“I should suppose so, it’s not every day that you get invited to a king’s coronation. He might be taking his daughter with him, the one you always talk about. The one with the red hair”, she said teasingly.

Jon blushed, picking at the seams on his tunic. “I don’t always talk about her.” He muttered angrily.

Ser Ormund laughed. “Has this girl stolen your heart then? Gowen is still trying to find the man that stole your tongue, but it appears as if you have found it at last.” He turned to the princess. “I’ve never had a page as quiet as this one, Princess Daenarys. Please thank the Crown Prince for me once more.”

Daenarys raised her eyebrow in amusement. “Is that a good thing, ser? I fear that I am not so well-versed in the matters of pages and squires.”

Ser Ormund grinned. “Better to have a quiet page, than a simpering fool or a lickspittle. Better to do your talking on the battlefield, my father was fond of saying.”

Daenarys glanced at her half-brother, who was obviously in awe of his foster father. The man was half a legend to aspiring warriors everywhere, and was said to have forgotten more about the ways of the sword than most of the current knights even knew. “I’m sure that Jon here will turn out to be an expedient page, Ser Ormund. Speaking of expedience, how does your nephew fare at Storm’s End? Daeron oft talks about him.” She said.

“The fact that His Grace should even _think_ about my lord nephew surprises us all, Princess Daenarys. He still has a long way to go, before he can even compare to his father. He does surround himself with wise men though, who are more than capable of telling him which boot to place on which foot without taking the better part of an hour”, the knight added dryly.

Daenarys chuckled at that, and bade the two men goodbye. The day was fast becoming into night, and the princess was of a mind to have an early supper. She retreated to the Red Keep, her guards riding closely behind her on the cobbled streets of the city. Some of the smallfolk cheered her name, while most looked on impassively. As she passed through the castle gates and handed the reins of her mount over to a stablehand, she noticed a few things which were somewhat out of place. First, it had been the sudden influx of men in the courtyard. There were about forty of them, garbed in good castle-forged steel.  Most of them had the insignia of House Bracken on their breastplates; a red stallion on a field of yellow. Then there was the fact that all of the men had seemed to be waiting for her. They told her that they meant her and her guards no harm, and begged her to follow them to the throne room. Seeing as she had no other choice, and that the men had certainly piqued her curiosity, she followed them into the throne room, where she spotted the two figures standing before the king’s seat.

The man on the left bowed before the princess. He spoke in a bitter tone which was his custom, offering Daenarys his condolences on their father’s death. The other figure had merely smiled at her, his face almost inhumanly beautiful.

Her half-brothers.

Aegor and Daemon.  

Daemon spoke in a clear voice, not even in the slightest bit as bitter as Aegor had been. 

"The King is dead, Princess. Long live the King."


	3. All Men Are Ambitious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV'S from Daemon, Brynden and Ser Ormund.

“My Lord, they await you in the Great Sept for the king’s coronation.”

“I am no lord; merely the king’s bastard brother. You tell them to wait a while longer.”

Talk of Daeron’s coronation had been running rampant throughout the entire realm. The great lords and knights of the Seven Kingdoms had been pouring through the city gates to renew their oaths of fealty to House Targaryen. He had spotted the grey direwolf and golden lion. There was also the moon-and-falcon of the Arryns, and the leaping trout of the Tullys. Golden rose, golden kraken, and even the sun-and spear of House Martell. Aegor had cursed them for the treacherous bastards that they were, threatening to kill them all even; but he had counseled restraint. The port had been filled with ships of all sizes, from the largest of barges, to the dingiest of poleboats. The owners of the vessels had formed an endless line of well-wishers and gift-givers to the soon-to-be king and his family. Even the servants had been showered with presents: richly embroidered clothes to be worn for the king’s coronation feast. Accommodating such exalted company had been a tough task for the castle stewards, and so they had moved him to less-than-ideal quarters without entirely evicting him from the Red Keep.

He was not in the slightest bit offended by that, but neither was he appreciative of all these simpering fools fawning over his half-brother.

Outside the castle, the commoners had begun to fill the streets. They wore shades of red and black in support of their new king. The children ran about happily, flinging flour at each other. The taverns and the inns were selling their drinks at half the usual price. The men were playing dice in their booths, whilst the women eagerly jostled one another for a mug of ale. Even the mummers and the singers had come out in the droves, pestering the castle guards to let them into the Red Keep so that they could perform before their new king at his celebratory feast.  He was not one to frequent taverns, but of late the castle had become much too crowded for him and his men. Aegor was still nursing his wounded pride, and on two occasions already, the men of House Bracken (who were sworn to him) had almost come to blows with the men of House Royce, who were a part of Lord Arryn’s retinue. The tavern that they were in reeked of piss and pestilence, but better here than rotting in the black cells (as Daeron had so considerately warned him) should he fail to keep his men in line. A hideously large rat scampered across their table, causing a commotion. One of the Bracken guards stabbed it with the point of his knife. The rat’s blood sprayed everywhere as it squealed. Some of the blood had stained his clothes, and Aegor had leaped across the table to strike at the man who had defiled his jerkin. At that very moment, being in the tavern was not too different from being in a black cell, or so he thought. 

Having lost his appetite, he pushed his plate away from him and stood. Aegor and fifteen of his men had followed suit as he exited the establishment. They mounted their horses, and followed the messenger to the Great Sept of Baelor. As they rode through the streets, some of the smallfolk cheered his name. “There goes the king’s brother”, said an old man to his counterpart. “That’s Daemon Blackfyre.”

He gave the man a weak smile, and tossed him a golden dragon

 

***

 

The size of the Gold Cloaks had been tripled recently, with the king himself placing the command of the outfit under one of Brynden’s trusted confidantes. Most of the senior officers had been relieved of their duties, with a great many of them getting indicted for a various number of heinous crimes as well. Under the late King Aegon, the outfit had descended into a pitiful state of corruption and inefficiency. Most of the cases within the city had even gone unsolved. _And how not,_ he wondered, _when those very same cases had been perpetrated by the men of the City Watch themselves?_ He did not doubt that some of the new recruits would turn out to be as bad at their jobs as their predecessors, and so he had decided to wait until they had revealed their true colors. If Daeron’s rule could be compared to a garden, then by all means, his half-brother had a whole lot of weeding to do. As the commoners took to the streets to celebrate the crowning of their king, the thieves and the vagrants hid in the shadows, nervously biding their time before striking. Under the late king, the number of such criminals had increased tenfold. Some of them had even grown so bold as to threaten and to bribe the very members of the Gold Cloaks. Aegon had been lax in developing methods to control them, but Daeron had promised to show them no such leniency.

_He meant to crush them._

The castle guards, on the other hand, were a different problem entirely. They had made their first mistake in letting Daemon and his followers through, without so much as consulting even a single member of the small council beforehand. Brynden doubted their loyalties, knowing full well that some of them were secretly conspiring with Aegor. As to what they were planning to do, he was still unsure, but he knew that his spies would get to the bottom of that issue eventually. Most of the guards were heavy drinkers, and a good amount of ale could loosen even the stiffest of tongues.

Not more than two days ago, Lord Barthogan Stark had ridden down from his icy fortress in the North. He had barged his way into the castle, and the men on the walls had not done very much to stop him. Their attitude (and in particular, their cowardice) had worried him then, but it was the Northerner who was the real threat to the king’s safety. Lord Barthogan had harassed the small council, who were in a middle of a very important meeting, and had demanded to speak to the king. He had yelled, and had thrown the furniture, acting like a spoiled little child for the whole world to see. Daeron did, eventually, grant him his request for an audience , and Brynden had been called in to serve as their witness. Lord Barthogan had been displeased with the way that Daeron had treated his nephew, the young Jon Snow. Jon was Barthogan’s only nephew, and the closest thing he would have to a male heir. He had begged for Daeron to return his nephew to him, but his half-brother had refused Lord Barthogan. Jon, after all, had been promised to serve as Ser Ormund’s page, and to go against that agreement would cause Daeron to appear as a king who could barely make good on his promises. The talk had lasted for hours, leading Brynden to believe that a compromise would be impossible.

This was one of those rare moments where he had been wrong.

The deal they had struck was fair, at the very least. Upon reaching manhood, Jon would be allowed to travel up North to serve under his uncle at Winterfell, in a position befitting his status as a knight. They had argued over who would knight him, leading Brynden to say that they could only cross that bridge at a later date. Lord Barthogan had relented at that, even going so far as to offer one of his own daughters to serve as the handmaiden to the Princess Daenarys, until the day of her wedding. Daeron chose his eldest daughter, the pretty one with the fiery red hair, knowing full well that Stark was doing this out of force than anything else. After all, the Northerner had acted in a rebellious way to secure his meeting with the king, and rebels would have to be punished harshly.

He spotted Lord Barthogan in the Great Sept of Baelor, but had made no attempts to approach the man. The mood in the Great Sept was suffocating, for he had not seen this many people in a confined place before in his entire life. The highborn guests had been allowed into the Great Sept, while those guests of much humbler birth had been permitted to wait outside the building. They had lighted candles, and were singing songs of praise to the Seven Above. They asked the gods for a righteous, and merciful ruler, and some of the septons had even gone outside to join them in their prayer. The lords and ladies inside the building were very somber, and there had been a lingering feeling of mistrust and suspicion amongst them. And how not, he thought, when some of the lords who Daeron had called friends were secretly rooting for his bastard brother Daemon? Some of the ladies at court had called for Daemon to claim the Iron Throne as was his right. And how not, he thought, when word of Daemon's legitimization had leaked out across half the world by now? Regardless of their sentiments, however, the High Septon had promised to crown _Daeron_ as the rightful king. The maesters had argued that Aegon’s mind had already been ravaged by the illness afflicting him, and that he could not make any sound decisions on his own. The High Septon had agreed, and Daeron's supporters had pushed for him to declare his father's last will to be null and void. 

As headstrong as Daemon could be sometimes, even he knew that it would take more than a frivolous sheet of paper to guarantee his claim to the Iron Throne. His followers could call him ‘the rightful heir’ to their hearts content, and it would not change a thing. 

The coronation had lasted the entirety of the evening, and when the seven vows had been invoked, an almost inaudible sigh of relief had passed through the Great Sept. The High Septon had tapped Daeron’s shoulders with a hefty broadsword, and had placed an elaborate golden crown on his head. It had seven spikes, each fashioned masterfully into the shape of a dragon. With a start, Brynden realized that the crown had once belonged to their father. It was too large for Daeron’s head, and so every time he moved his neck, the crown would threaten to topple over. At the end of the ceremony, the lords and ladies had rushed to congratulate him. Daeron’s children stood behind him, under the watchful eye of Princess Myriah Martell. Brynden beckoned towards his men, who followed him out of the Great Sept. He would congratulate his half-brother later.

They rode earnestly for the Red Keep. He had placed the safety of the castle in the very capable hands of one of his lieutenants. Even so, assurance did not come naturally to him. The castle guards had proven to be as unpredictable and as untrustworthy as the Black Dragon. Soon, all the lords and ladies would be headed for the castle to partake in the new king’s celebratory feast. For Brynden, who had been elected to the post of master of whisperers a few days ago, the problems were only just piling up.

***

The feast hall in the Red Keep had been allowed to accommodate up to a thousand guests. Those seats had been reserved by the noble lords and their wives. Those from the lesser houses and the hedge knights had been given leave to take their supper in the gardens. Ser Ormund Baratheon had been granted a table all to himself, and he shared that very table with his grandnephew, Ser Gowen, his loyal followers who were the younger sons of the lords of the Stormlands, and his own page, Jon Snow. His followers had eagerly polished off the food placed before them, and were now in the very process of drinking their way through the king's wine cellar. The king himself sat at the dais, surrounded by his family and closest companions. Every now and then, the Princess Daenarys would throw a glance their way, making sure that Jon was well attended to. His young page was quiet, and was not like to develop a sense of humor in the near future either. Jon only ever spoke to Ser Ormund and his grandnephew, but had proven to be an exciting prospect in the training yard. The lords of the other Great Houses were seated all around them, with the nearest table being occupied by Lord Barthogan Stark and his men. When Ser Ormund had approached the Stark table, he had found their lord to be cold and unreceptive, preferring to favor the old knight with short and brusque replies. His young page was deeply engaged in a conversation with one of Lord Barthogan’s daughters. His face had been as red as the girl’s hair.

 

When the king had stood to deliver his speech, the entire hall had become silent. Some of his men were acting in an unruly manner, almost coming to blows over a plate of veal. He had sent his grandnephew to keep them in line. The king had started by thanking all of the lords and ladies present, and had reassured them that their confidence in his abilities would not go unrewarded. He had also thanked his wife and children for their undying support, and had embraced his half-brother Brynden, who had been promoted to the position of the master of whisperers. Ser Ormund had glanced to his right, to the very end of the hall, where the Black Dragon had been seated with his men from House Bracken. Daemon guarded his expressions carefully, choosing not to even look at the king. It was said that he fancied his half-sister Daenarys, and if the rumors were true; had even approached the Princess to ask for her hand in marriage. Daemon, of course, had already been promised to another, the daughter of the Archon of Tyrosh, and the king had vehemently denied his request. Daeron was even willing to pay the girl’s dowry, and secure a tract of land for them, so that his half-brother could marry the Archon’s daughter as soon as possible. When Ser Ormund had heard that he had laughed. He had never seen a Targaryen king who was so eager to please his enemies.

When the king had ended his speech, the lords and ladies had been permitted to leave the castle. A serving girl had materialized out of thin air, and had taken his plate of unfinished apple pie away from him. He stood up, and the rest of his men had followed suit. They shuffled out of the hall, most of them inebriated. He summoned his lieutenants and ordered them to lead the men safely to their quarters. He told Jon to stay with his grandnephew as he made his way to the godswood. The place was empty at this time of the night, and the wide spaces between the trees, as well as the bright lighting, made it difficult for any mysterious figures to eavesdrop on their conversation unseen. The other man was already there, standing before the heart tree. He was lean and tall, with a close cropped beard and violet eyes. He was dressed in a studded leather jerkin and breeches, with the red stallion of his house embroidered over the left side of his chest. He nodded curtly when he saw Ser Ormund. This was not a man who trusted others easily; if not at all. “Gowen said that you would not come, but I told him that you would be hard-pressed to turn down my invitation”, he began.

The other man snorted, and fingered the handle of the blade on his left hip. He spoke in low, hating tones. “Say what you mean to say old man, and make it quick. I do not like the feel of this place.”

“You do not like the godswood, Rivers? Such a shame. This place is so peaceful, and tranquil, and quiet”, he added with a laugh.

“Some would say that it is _too_ quiet.”

Ser Ormund smiled. He was treading on thin ice right now. Wasn’t it his father who had once told him that he was too ambitious for his own good? His father was long gone, and they had never been as close as he would have liked, but the man had always offered him sound advice, and had worried about him the most out of his three children.

“I’ve come alone, Rivers, so you need not fear an ambush. It would seem that you are not one for small talk, so let’s stop beating around the bush.”

“How refreshing”, his counterpart offered sarcastically.

“My nephew is a weak and indecisive man. The smallfolk despise him, and he is too generous to the wrong sort of people. Some would say that he is gullible. I say that he is stupid. Even now, the lords sworn to House Baratheon plot his downfall, meaning to place either me or Orys in his seat. I have no intention to rule, but I command the loyalty of many respected fighters in the Stormlands, and it is said that their children even look up to me. My grandnephew may be foolhardy at times, but he has a good heart and a brilliant mind. We would both be better rulers than my nephew. Our cook could be a better ruler than my nephew, even.”

“And why should I care about your nephew, Ser Ormund?”

The old knight moved closer to Aegor, staring him right in the eye. “Our new king could be just as bad as my nephew. Maybe even worse. For far to long, I have let my brother's son jeopardize the future of House Baratheon. I'll be damned before I allow Aegon's _legitimat_ e son to jeopardize that of our country."

Aegor was silent for a long time. Ser Ormund placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You go ask Daemon. Ask him if it isn't too late for an old man to switch sides now."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Your feedback is much appreciated!


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